


STR

by Telstar (Altopiano)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altopiano/pseuds/Telstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...each time he managed to catch a glimpse of Sam, he found that Sam had chosen just that same moment to glance his way...</p>
            </blockquote>





	STR

**Author's Note:**

> STR stands for Sexual Tension Resolved, ie it's the opposite of UST. :)
> 
> Thanks to Belleferret for the pictorial inspiration!

 

“... and them roses round your window want pruning back, sir, if you’ve no objection, which Sam ‘ere can do, and Mr Bilbo said especial as ‘ow ‘e wants that bare patch down the bottom end plantin’ up wi’ summat nice, by which he means flowers I take it, though it’s my opinion that’s the perfect spot for a row of onions...”

Sam stood, head bowed, watching his toes make patterns in the dirt and clearly only half listening to what his father was saying. Frodo had given up listening altogether a while ago, and was watching Sam instead. Something about the way he was standing, head slightly down, slightly to one side, was doing strange and not unpleasant things to Frodo’s inner regions. Sam shifted slightly, and the neck of his shirt opened a little wider, and Frodo stared. Hairs! _Chest_ hairs! Frodo knew some hobbits had them, had even seen some for himself on certain occasions in the past – but they had only been meagre little patches, or sparsely scattered strands. Whereas _this_! What he could see peeking over the top of Sam’s shirt seemed a veritable meadow of hobbity hairiness, and suddenly Frodo desperately wanted to run free in that golden crop, to draw his hands through it, bury his face... His heart pounded - his mouth was dry - he was aware that the Gaffer had stopped talking and was eyeing him strangely; but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Then Sam looked up, straight into his eyes, and Frodo knew he saw what was written there, every throb of desire, every quiver of lust that was pounding through him. For a fleeting moment Sam looked startled, then in the time it takes to draw a breath, his face gentled and the slightest of smiles crinkled his eyes.

“Sam, get off about yer work, lad,” growled the Gaffer, breaking the long silence that had stretched out around them.

Sam nodded, not breaking eye contact with Frodo, and backed away before turning to collect his tools and take himself off to some remote part of the garden. Frodo sensed the Gaffer’s disapproving eyes on him, and struggled to compose himself.

“Well, Master Hamfast, I’ll let you get on,” he said lamely, and all but ran back into the smial.

~#~

_Later_

That evening, Frodo accompanied Bilbo to the _Green Dragon_. Sam and his father were already there, circled by cronies, smoking and laughing. Immediately, Frodo felt that his perception of Sam was heightened to an eerie clarity. Even though he and Bilbo sat on the opposite side of the room, with a shifting mass of hobbits in between, he was acutely aware of every movement over there, of every chance parting of the crowd that would allow, for a split second, a clear line of sight to the one he craved to see. And each time he managed to catch a glimpse of Sam, he found that Sam had chosen just that same moment to glance his way. And so their eyes continually met and knocked and bumped together, until Frodo felt his head starting to spin in the overheated atmosphere. Muttering some excuse to Bilbo, he slipped away and out into the cool night. He knew that Sam would see that he was gone. But would he follow? He thought Sam would follow, but the uncertainty made his chest ache as he paced around aimlessly. Maybe the Gaffer wouldn’t let him. Maybe it was best if he didn’t. Maybe Frodo should just go home now, before any harm was done. Maybe he wasn’t coming, anyway... He turned in his pacing, and there was Sam right in front of him, inches away, and in his eyes Frodo saw there was nothing to fear.

~#~

_Five minutes later_

There being no question of walking anywhere, let alone all the way back to Bag End, they had simply stumbled down the nearest alleyway and fallen upon each other. Frodo had backed Sam hard up against the wall, and proceeded to ravish his mouth while tearing at his clothes with feverish hands. And Sam didn’t stand idle, no, his hands slipped and slid into all manner of places while he matched Frodo’s desperate kissing with an assertive tongue and merciless teeth. Heedless of buttons, Frodo fought Sam’s shirtfront apart to lay bare the magnificent landscape that had taunted his imagination all afternoon. With blissful murmurs he bestrode it with questing fingers and furrowed it with his tongue. Sam made inarticulate noises and grabbed handfuls of Frodo’s hair, while Frodo went nose deep in the central lowlands, and started a slow, slathering journey south. Suddenly he found his head yanked up by the hair and himself shoved roughly back against the opposite wall, and Sam was all over him before he could protest. By some sorcery (or by some blind and frantic tugging), breeches and underlinens fell away, and Frodo thought his heart would explode as Sam’s hard naked flesh ground against his own. He wanted to look, to touch, but there could be only one culmination to this frenzy, and in perfect accord, Sam hefted him easily as he parted his legs and wrapped them around Sam’s waist. There wasn’t time for proper preparation, but he grasped one of Sam’s hands and sucked wetly on his fingers, then guided them to his opening. Sam knew what to do but seemed almost beyond rational thought. Nevertheless, he pushed in one finger, then two, and then there could be no more waiting. Sam withdrew, and braced them, and then his thick, slick cock was plunging inside and Frodo felt he must either split asunder or die of ecstasy. With every surging thrust he keened his dark delight, as a tingling tension deep in his bowels began to grow and build until it held him rigid in an unbearable paean of light. Sam’s hoarse cries quickened and gathered into one drawn out guttural plaint as he came fast, spurting and spilling deep within Frodo. And Frodo shuddered and clenched around the glorious penetration, and delivered himself over at last into long bursts of delirious exultation.

~#~

_Lastly_

With strength and sinew finally failing, they slid down the wall like raindrops running down a windowpane. They were a puddle of swimming senses, a huddle of boneless, breathless, sated hobbithood. With soothing hands they settled each other. As breath and life and some awareness slowly returned, they carefully moved apart and put themselves to rights.

“I hope I weren’t too rough, sir,” said Sam. “Just couldn’t stop meself, seemingly.”

Frodo chuckled. He was bruised and torn and still felt like he was flying.

“I’ll survive, Sam,” he said, tucking Sam’s shirt back inside his breeches.  “And I wouldn’t have had you stop for the world.” He stroked Sam’s face with loving wonder. “There will be time for gentleness between us. You’ll see.” And he smiled. “I daresay we won’t ever find ourselves in such a desperate situation again.”

Sam met Frodo’s regard with a crooked little smile of his own.

“Yet we may, Mr Frodo,” he said. “We may.” 

 

  



End file.
